


we know it's lose-lose

by burnsidesjulia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (mostly), American Politics, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Desk Sex, Implied Relationships, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, it's a double whammy! get ready to get sad!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:01:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9314663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnsidesjulia/pseuds/burnsidesjulia
Summary: Aaron is here on business.aaron goes to the hamilton residence seeking the federalist party's endorsement, and receives something else.





	

Aaron is here on business.

The election is chasing after him, following him at his heels and nipping incessantly. It’s not that he wants to ignore it, but it’s that sometimes he feels he _has_ to, to keep his sanity. Jefferson is proving himself a worthy opponent, at least debatably, and stands as his only real competition now. Years ago, in the back room of that tavern he went to during the war, Fraunces, Laurens had said Burr couldn’t hold his own against his own shadow. Laurens is dead. Burr still feels the need to prove him wrong. And Jefferson isn’t only worthy, but the man is ruthless. Ever since he started convincing everyone that John Adams is dead, Aaron really hasn’t been sure of what he might pull next.

So this has become a necessity if he is to win. And Aaron is only here for that reason.

The new Hamilton residence is just as nice as the old one. A little bigger, maybe. Lonelier. A sharper fence and darker paint job on the outside, like maybe they’re trying to ward off any unwanted visitors. Or any visitors at all. Aaron’s been here once before, right after Philip passed, but never came any further than these front steps because he’d been too afraid to knock. He’s scarcely seen Hamilton since. Perhaps he feels a bit guilty for only having the courage to knock now, when it’s for his own benefit. But he can’t let silly feelings get in the way. This is a matter of politics. Aaron fully intends to win.

He pulls back the knocker, drops it hard to the heavy wooden door. It bounces twice. He waits. There is a creaking just on the other side. The knob wheels around slowly. Aaron bounces on his toes.

Hamilton has aged. Fiercely, it seems, and Aaron questions for a moment exactly _how_ long it’s been. Hamilton has never been a put together man, but he looks particularly disheveled, glasses perched on his nose at a slant. His hair is peppered with flecks of both light and dark grey, his undereyes hollow. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, tiny smudges of black ink on his forearms. That’s normal. That eases Aaron’s head.

There is a long moment where they both simply stare, taking in the picture of each other. It’s like they each recognize the other, but can’t quite place the name.

Aaron places it first. Puts on a winning smile. A _presidential_ smile.

“Alexander.” One speckled-grey eyebrow rises. So does one corner of his mouth. “Well. If it Aaron Burr, sir.” His arm twitches forward, maybe for a handshake, but stops before it passes his hip. He crosses them instead after another moment of hesitation. “You certainly have created quite the stir.” He sounds almost smug. Searching. His dark eyes are twinkling with intrigue behind his spectacles, the only part of him that seems as lively as ever. Aaron nods. “I’m going door to door,” he explains. “It’s the only way to stay connected to the voters, you know.” That’s a lie. He’s staying _back_ from the voters mostly, determined to just be that vague smile from afar. Someone who can only be judged by a pretty face and distinguished silence. He’s only come to this door thus far. It’s something he firmly believes he would do for only Hamilton.

Hamilton seem skeptical as it is, and leans his hunched back against the edge of the doorframe. His breath clouds the air between them, mingling with Aaron’s. “You’re openly campaigning?” he asks flatly, that quizzical eyebrow still raised. Aaron feels that anger Hamilton always aroused in him churning again. Certainly, it is just like Hamilton to chip away at Aaron’s tough exterior, feast upon the vulnerability beneath it. He acts like he gets a kick out of seeing Aaron squirm. Regardless, Aaron keeps that smile in place. “Sure. Why not?” he responds, praying that will elicit _some_ form of a response that isn’t insult. Of course, and as always, his prayers are ignored by his God, and Hamilton gives a chuckle from deep within his frail chest. “Well. That’s new,” he scoffs. Aaron feels his face grow hot. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Burr, sir,” Hamilton responds, scathing. “I mean, why _would_ I be surprised that you’ve actually acted on something that may not be foolproof? You _are_ a well-known risk taker.” His voice positively drips with sarcasm.

“I _am_ , Hamilton. Don’t act as if you’ve forgotten the war.” Aaron feels his tongue sharpening on the inside of his mouth, and he doesn’t care at all. He sees Hamilton flinch back a bit at the mention of the war, and for that, he might care. Hamilton has seen loss now. His eyes are a little less blind to the constant battle with mortality that life is. He’s lost his mother. His best friend. His son. It makes sense for Hamilton to be softer towards death now. Less likely to wish for a war.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me, Burr,” Hamilton says, his voice a gentle contrast to Aaron’s. “I was only implying that you’ve never been one to act without _extensive_ thought.” Aaron scowls at him. “Easy for you to say, Hamilton” he snaps back, his hands flying from their loose position at his sides into harsh, pointing fingers. “You’ve never had to worry about the consequences of anything you’ve done.” Hamilton’s face falls, and Aaron notes again the age. His cheeks are sunken. His eyes are wrinkled at the edges.

“Well.” Hamilton stands up from the doorframe, throwing the dismissive posture to the wayside. Aaron watches him, feels his own demeanor harshening. Perhaps he went too far. Hamilton is well aware of his shortcomings by now- he must be- and so who is Aaron to remind him? To revisit the fact that Hamilton’s legacy, which he cares for so dearly, is resting on his shoulders alone? He’s nearly ready to apologize, putting the words together in his mouth when Hamilton moves again. He smiles almost viciously, gestures vaguely out at Aaron. “Do what you will, then. Campaign to me.”

Aaron sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, but smiles back. A winning smile. A very-nearly presidential smile. And Hamilton laughs.

Aaron feels his shoulders sag, his teeth starting to grind in his mouth. Hamilton keeps laughing, guffawing under his breath and trying to hide it with a hand. Aaron stands dumbly, unmoving, and lets himself be the joke that Hamilton is making of him. His pride might as well fall from his body and wander away at this point. When Hamilton stops, the silence the most sweet mankind has ever heard, he wipes glistening tears from his lashes. “I’m sorry, Burr,” he assures, though Aaron is not at all assured. “Really, I am. But, be honest with me- do you really think _you’re_ fit to be president?”

“Do you really think _you_ were fit to be treasury secretary?” Aaron grits back, his heart thumping hard. He’s tired of this. He came here for help, not to be humiliated. He’s here for business. If they won’t do business, Aaron won’t do small talk, either.

“I do,” Hamilton replies easily. He lets his guard down again, leans back against the doorframe. He places a foot flat against it, leaning his weight upon it. Aaron stands stiffly, cardboard-like in place while Hamilton looks him up and down with greedy, prying eyes. Finally, after far too long, Hamilton asks, “Is there anything you wouldn’t do?”

Aaron is caught off-guard by something unhostile, and so he isn’t sure how to reply for a moment. He shifts back on his toes uncomfortably. Shakes his head. “No. No there isn’t.” He swallows down all the cruel things he could say in reply. “I’m chasing what I want.” Hamilton smiles again, for a brief moment. “About time,” he says, and for the first time in the entire encounter, he sounds sincere. He shakes his head again. “Good for you, Aaron. I suppose it’s my duty to support you in all endeavors, after all.” He sighs, stands away from the door. “But I must be going.”

“Wait, Alexander.” Something he’s said so many times. He clears his throat. “I must tell you one more thing.” Hamilton’s eyebrows raise again. Aaron has grown to like them over the course of the conversation; speckled like robin’s eggs, neat and trim. He tilts his head. “Speak, then.” Aaron nods. “What I’m doing, you see- to become president- well. I learned that from you.” Aaron shrugs, plays the comment off. The silence that follows is harsh and unforgiving. And what would break it but another gentle laugh from Hamilton.

“Huh. Imagine that.” Hamilton steps back into the doorway, a smile creeping back up his face. “You, learning from me.” He shakes his head. “That would’ve been a dream come true back in our Princeton days.”

“ _My_ Princeton days,” Aaron corrects gently. Hamilton doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t reply. He sways forward again, his step slightly crooked. Aaron looks up the bit that it takes to meet his eyes, finds him already gazing back down, still smiling. “I was always good at taking what I wanted. Wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” Aaron replies, chuckling to himself. “Incredibly good.” His skin is tight. He’s done what he needed; Hamilton has given his support. If he reveals this, he’ll have the Federalist vote in the bag. Jefferson won’t stand a chance. Aaron will finally prove himself. Still, he doesn’t move. Just smiles back plastically.

“Well,” Hamilton says, his voice growing softer _(fonder?)_ , “it really couldn’t hurt to take a bit more. Like you said, I’ve nothing to lose.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Aaron protests. Pauses. “And what do you mean by-”

Hamilton kisses him.

Aaron is fast to respond; his hands are on Hamilton’s shoulders instantaneously, shoving him back as hard as he can. He’s already breathing heavily. “Are you _crazy_?” he hisses, eyes darting nervously. Hamilton, in a similar state, nods. “Indeed.” Aaron shakes his head right back. “We can’t possibly,” he says, his voice registering as shrill within his own head. “We could- and you could- _Hamilton- _”__

“I understand,” he answers. Aaron’s mouth catches around his words, his breath stuck in his chest. Hamilton spins on his foot, walks into his house. He stands several feet back from the door and beckons Aaron in.

This is not what Aaron meant by calling him crazy. By saying that they can’t. He meant that Hamilton has a wife and children, and he has them himself. Meant that so soon after the Reynolds incident, Hamilton must be absolutely _mad_ to be risking this. Meant that they haven’t in so _long _and Aaron is only here on business as it is and-__

And Aaron walks into the Hamilton’s home. Closes the door behind himself. Is less than surprised when Hamilton clicks the lock into place, too.

“Can’t have us getting beheaded,” Hamilton jokes morbidly, between wet kisses to Aaron’s collar. Aaron tries to laugh anyway, the sound coming out brittle. Hamilton bites along his jaw. “Speaking of head-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut _up_ ,” Aaron urges him, fingers trembling wildly as he works his way over Hamilton’s buttons. Hamilton is always talking too much, even when his mouth is on another man’s neck, nibbling incessantly. Aaron feels his gut twisting. He’s a bad man for this; for feeling such elation that Hamilton’s hands are on him, touching through his shirt, after so long. For being so impatient to unwrap him from his own clothes, like he’s opening a gift bound in fine materials- Hamilton _feels_ rich, so different that the rags he used to wear, and Aaron is- Aaron is so--

“You can stop telling me to shut up now,” Hamilton mumbles into his mouth, their lips close enough to be nearly airtight. Aaron shakes his head gently so as not to disconnect, keeps pressing the words from his mouth into Hamilton’s. He chases them with his tongue. He hopes some of them may stick.

While they kiss, their hands are an impossible muddle of fingers flying blindly. Each of them reach to undo the other’s cravat, twisting and pulling almost fruitlessly, tugging until something comes loose and then flinging it away. Aaron’s chest is fluttering as if he’s caught several small birds within it and all of them are taking flight now, pushing him closer to Hamilton from the inside. And he goes closer, coat to coat and then shirt to shirt and finally, glorious skin to skin, and Aaron is so broken that he moans. Hamilton laughs, but swallows the noise down hungrily. He holds Aaron’s face in his hands. Hamilton’s hands are larger than he remembers. That, or he’s simply shrunken.

Aaron thinks vaguely of what they will do is Mrs. Hamilton is home- how they’ll explain the nudity, the kissing, the fact that Aaron’s cock is twitching impatiently beneath his briefs- but can’t spare enough mind power to actually solve the problem. If she is here, so be it. Aaron is here right _now_ , and Hamilton is kissing him. He is kissing Hamilton.

Hamilton pulls back from Aaron at last, his pupils swollen and his lips kiss-bitten. He grabs Aaron by the wrist, tugs him along the beautifully tiled floor and down a hall, into a small room to the side. Aaron surveys it, finds a desk, a chair and a neat fireplace to be the room’s only attributes. Hamilton pulls him against him again, jerks his head back toward the desk. “My study,” he says, as if Aaron couldn’t guess. Still, he tries to laugh in response. “On the desk?” he asks, unable to form any more intelligent commentary. “Well, if that isn’t cliche.” Hamilton smiles. “Haven’t I always been?” He sweeps his arms across the table, sending papers fluttering gently off all side of it. He hops up backwards, wriggling back onto it and undoing the tie at the top of his breeches. “If you wouldn’t mind-” he begins, and Aaron cuts him off with a sweet kiss atop the thigh. “No,” he says, eyelashes batting flirtily. “It would be _my pleasure_.” And he is thoroughly disgusted with himself.

He bends to his knees, a familiar place when it comes to Hamilton; he knows these legs, slender and strong and a picture of beauty. He finishes untying the strings, unwinding them from the buttons. Hamilton sighs in relief when they’re undone, leans back on his hands to allow Aaron to take them down. He doesn’t remove them entirely, only halfway down the thigh, and then presses his palm to Hamilton’s lower stomach. He kisses downward, lagging only as he reaches the stretch of skin between his hip and cock. There, he pauses, lifts his other hand to trace gently. Hamilton has a birthmark there, small and oddly shapen, like an artist dropped his paintbrush on the canvas. It is just barely darker than his skin tone, and Aaron is still fascinated by it after all this time. He knows this part of Hamilton so well. Takes the knowledge of this as something to carry with him that only he can have. Him and Eliza, but Aaron can share-

He dips his head down, mouth around Hamilton’s cock. Alexander’s cock. He runs the flat of his tongue over the head, listens contentedly as Alexander moans above him, his nails scratching the varnished wood of his desktop. Aaron bobs downward, hollowing his cheeks to feel the slide of Alexander’s cock along his mouth, against his tongue. He’s truly always loved blowing Alexander, as vulgar as it sounds even in his own head. But watching him give up all his power, to be brought to a screeching halt just by _Aaron’s_ mouth is a sight to behold. It’s not as if he does it often, either, as much as he might like to; it’s been years since he’s had Alexander in this way. Years since they’ve so much as spoken, really, it can’t have been more than once since Philip passed away, because then so did Theodosia and Aaron began campaigning but-

Aaron pushes this from his mind. Focuses on the hot pressure of Alexander in his mouth, on his tongue, all around him.

One of Alexander’s hands finds the back of Aaron’s head and cups it, holding it delicately as if he thinks he might break it. Aaron feels the tension leave his shoulders at the gentle touch, preening like a cat, and he repays by flexing his tongue, shifting it along the underside of Alexander’s cock. He moans above him, and the hand grows heavier, gently urging Aaron to move down, to take more. Aaron complies easily, more than willing to do so. When Alexander’s hand relieves that pressure he pulls back up, sucks gently at the head and swirls his tongue along the ridge of his cock. Alexander outright groans this time, hips shifting forward into Aaron’s mouth, and Aaron feels his own cock throb between his legs. He’s sure he’ll get his own matter seen to, as only once or twice has Alexander left him unsatisfied; sitting panting in a storage closet, fully hard and with come in his mouth, or atop a desk much like this, his own fingers stuffed into himself to alleviate the ache that came with Alexander leaving. Those were the last times. They’ve not done this since. And yet, here they are.

Aaron sinks back down, continuing to swallow until his nose nudges skin and coarse dark hair. Or, his eyes are closed now, but he’s seen it before and so he knows. He wonders if the hair may be peppered with grey now, too. He can feel Alexander at the back of his throat, just a threat of choking but not quite enough to actually do it. This is much of what Aaron has always liked about Alexander. He _does_ have a nice cock.

“Oh, fuck, _Aaron_ ,” Alexander breathes above him, the hand returning to his head. “You’re- you’re _good_ , so good, but I need you to pull off so I can-” Aaron complies again, lifting his lips off with a rather satisfying _pop_. Still, he is confused. He’s always allowed Alexander to come in his mouth before, so he doesn’t see why he wouldn’t now. Perhaps he’d feel wrong to do so after so long, or maybe he wants to come on his face, or maybe-

None of the above. Alexander does not come at all, just sits there, panting and digging his nails into his palms. Aaron, still on his knees beside the desk, redirects his focus to touching himself. He just ghosts his hand over himself, not so much stroking as he is teasing. Aaron takes his time. In all honesty, Aaron _likes_ waiting.

“Sorry about that,” Alexander pants, eyes following Aaron’s hand in the small circles they’re tracing over the line of his own cock. “I needed to catch my breath. I’m not as spry as I used to be.” He smiles weakly, meets Aaron’s gaze now. “You can touch yourself if you want, Aaron, but I’ll need you to do so up here.” And with that, he slides off the desk, gesturing Aaron onto it. Aaron does as he asks, almost reluctantly. He isn’t sure what Alexander has planned. But honestly, if it involves getting them both off, Aaron could not possibly be _more_ interested. He’s wanted this for so long, waited so long to have Alexander again. He has him. He wants more of him.

Aaron scoots back on the desk until his knees bump the edge, undoes his own briefs for Alexander’s convenience. Alexander stands by and simply watches, his own bottoms still half-on and his cock bobbing proudly in front of him. Aaron feels his mouth actually _water_ at the sight. Alexander’s cock is still gleaming with the dampness of his saliva, and Aaron can taste him heavily in his mouth. And for that, he feels thoroughly used. For now, that is enough.

Alexander doesn’t let Aaron keep his pants partway on as he did, insisting upon pulling them all the way down and kissing back up from the ankle. Butterflies explode in Aaron’s gut, alarm bells ringing in his head. This Alexander is far too sweet. He’s too much like he used to be, the first time they did this. Back when they were both young, barely nineteen, grinding half-dressed in the alley behind Fraunces like their lives depended on it. Aaron, hands trembling as he ran them through Alexander’s hair. And then Alexander, tan and smooth-skinned, pressing his lips to Aaron’s neck like he was holding a lover and not his first friend. Not his enemy. Just them, Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, all tongues and bodies and breath.

Now, Alexander is older, and so is Aaron. The both of them are more refined for the age, far more adult. Or so they’d like to think, at least. Aaron isn’t sure right now, as the way Alexander teasingly nips at his thighs and traces fingertips along his skin is so pryingly sweet that it’s more akin to the teasing lover he once was than the man he should be. Aaron doesn’t complain. He simply closes his eyes and tries to remember it all.

Alexander’s fingers trail to the insides of his thighs, lower and towards his ass. Aaron shivers, violently almost, as Alexander’s fingertips brush over his hole. So that’s what he has planned. But he can’t _possibly_ be expected to take Alex’s fingers like that, not after so long without- But he needn’t worry. Alexander stands, presses his lips to Aaron’s again. “Oil,” he murmurs into their kiss, and Aaron very nearly laughs. Alexander pulls away but not far, the tips of their noses still brushing. “I don’t have oil here,” he says, whispering as if he’s telling a secret. “Not in this room, at least.” Aaron shakes his head and their noses bump. “I can do without it,” he lies, because he can’t bare to not have Alexander when he’s been offered something so promising as his fingers inside of him. Alexander shakes his head back at him. “No, you can’t. It’s been too long and I don’t want to hurt you or- just let me go look. I _must_ have some, it’s just been awhile since I’ve-” Alexander falters, falls silent. Aaron can hear the end of this sentence regardless. It’s just been a while since Alexander has prepared someone like this, since he’s had any use for it, since he’s bothered with any man at all. Aaron was his last. The thought puts a skip in his heartbeat.

“Just- just give me a moment. I’ll be back.” Alexander kisses him, far too gently, and then leaves the room, waddling with his pants still bunched around his thighs. At any other time, Aaron would laugh at him, but for now he just lowers his hand and strokes himself gently while he waits.

Alexander returns a few minutes later, hands held behind his back and an impossible grin on his face. Aaron notes that he’s not flagged a bit, still standing proud between his thighs. Alexander steps close to Aaron and removes his hand, offers his fingers up before his face. “Guess.” Aaron could’ve already guessed what it was from the smell; it’s flaxseed oil, likely a bit beyond it’s shelf-life. This has always been Alexander’s choice when it comes to oil, they’ve used it before. Aaron has definitely come to be knowledgeable about it and it’s presence, as well as his own distaste for it. Still, he takes the fingers into his mouth, sucks around them like they’re the greatest gift he’s even been offered. The way Alexander’s eyes light up, Aaron assumes the feeling is mutual. 

He doesn’t like the taste of flaxseed, really, even when entirely fresh. It’s crisp and piney, a bit nutty, but somehow off putting. He wouldn’t use it if he had a choice, but he doesn’t and Alexander’s fingers are in his mouth so he sucks them clean, complete with obscene slurping sounds. When Alexander removes his fingers with a soft popping noise, Aaron says, “I’d guess linseed.” Alexander raises his eyebrows and, maintaining eye contact, puts the fingers into his own mouth and curls them on his tongue for Aaron to see. Aaron shivers. Alexander smiles around them devilishly.

He reveals the bottle from behind his back, making a show of pouring the oil over his fingers and warming it with gentle rubbing motions. Aaron watches, still stroking himself off, grip getting firmer and more decisive. For once, he’s the one growing impatient. In all fairness, it’s been so long. At least Alexander has Eliza to tend to him, but Aaron- Aaron is alone nowadays. And he’s missed this- missed _Alexander_ \- so much.

After much ado, Alexander settles back between Aaron’s legs, standing this time. His hard cock rubs gently against Aaron’s, and the both of them groan with pleasure. But Alexander doesn’t linger, just lowers his hand between their bodies, gently prodding at Aaron’s hole and pushing inward. Aaron hisses. The stretch is welcome, but then there’s the hot, sizzling pain that fizzles through his legs and up his spine. The hiss devolves into an undignified groan as the pain slowly turns into pleasure. Alexander shushes him, pecks him on the lips. Aaron quiets, content with the feeling of Alexander’s finger curling within him, easing him open, and the slide of their tongues on each other.

Alexander adds another finger without needing to be asked. He knows what he’s doing still, clearly, but he’s a bit clumsier than he once was; his wrist cramps and he complains under his breath, he has more trouble finding Aaron’s prostate, his movements are all a little jumbled. Still, Aaron is writhing, panting on the desk, abs tightening and loosening over and over in a constant wave of rising and falling pleasure.

Aaron closes his eyes at the press of a third finger, sucks his breath in between his teeth. He thinks about the last time he and Alexander did this, how they didn’t even look at each other. How Alexander thrust in lazily until he came, pulled out left Aaron stranded and half-stripped atop an office desk. How they didn’t speak again for weeks, and when they did, Alexander still wouldn’t meet his gaze. He pushes that away, instead thinks of how one of Alexander’s hands is stroking his thigh gently, how they’re kissing on and off at intervals, how this all feels. He’ll remember this instead. He promises himself.

Alexander removes his fingers, wiping the excess oil off on his thigh. He steps forward, taking his cock in one hand and lifting Aaron’s leg with another. Aaron opens his eyes, watches as Alexander lines up and pushes into him with one velvety thrust, hot and thick and slowly filling Aaron up in the way he’s been craving to be for what must’ve been _years_.

Alexander stays there, pressed in to the hilt for a moment, just grinding deeply into him and letting Aaron feel every inch of him. Aaron can, and does, and tosses his head back with a noisy moan to prove this to him. Alexander grasps the back of his head again, pulls them forehead to forehead. “Look at me,” he whispers again. Aaron does, and Alexander rubs his thumb up and down his cheekbone, drops his mouth open as if in awe. Aaron feels goosebumps raise along his skin, gazing back up at Alexander as he starts to pull out slightly, push back in, over and over in a building, incredible rhythm.

Alexander is just as Aaron remembers him. He’s a good fuck, that much is unarguable. He goes about this as he would anything else; _passionately_. He’s never done anything half-assed, Aaron will give him that much credit, and he certainly doesn’t do this poorly either. Instead, it is all the burning desire he carries with him in all of life, all of it focused into one task. And Aaron gets to reap the rewards of this passion, gets every hot stroke into his body, focused on his pleasure and striking his prostate with nearly every attempt. Alexander’s cock is, _somehow_ , even nicer than his fingers, pressing into every right spot in Aaron’s body and setting a fire in his lower abdomen, a familiar churning and pleasure so raw that it’s blinding. Aaron rocks backwards on Alexander’s cock, grinds his body upward _hard_ and- oh, _oh_. He’s already getting close.

Alexander isn’t noisy during, as opposed to what one would expect. All of his brainpower is directed to the task at hand, only sparing room for staccato grunts and short moans every so often. Aaron, on the other hand, can’t keep his mouth shut, gasping and cursing, breathing out Alexander’s name and inhaling on the Lord’s. He thinks of times Alexander silenced him before- and what _irony_ that is- and the taste of silk comes to mind, heavy and gagging on his tongue. He quite liked it, really. He wouldn’t mind it now, but instead of asking he moans, tells Alexander to give him more, to push _harder_ , to nearly drive him into the wood of the desk. His ass, rubbing on the tabletop, is getting raw. It stings, and he can feel a mark of some kind forming. A bruise, maybe. Aaron still doesn’t complain. He doesn't mind.

Alexander leans forward for a better angle, pushing on Aaron’s chest until he lies flat on the desk. Alexander leans over him, a hand planted beside his head. This angle is _good_ , makes Aaron’s head spin with every thrust. Alexander’s stomach rubs against his cock spontaneously, sends him hurtling closer to the edge. Alexander sets his free hand to the task of reaching between them, wrapping around Aaron’s cock and stroking in time with his thrusts. “Fuck,” he pants out, one of the only words he seems to know, and Aaron returns the sentiment with a similarly breathed, “ _Alexander_.”

Aaron’s hands find their way to Alexander’s shoulders and his feet cross behind his lower back, forcing them closer even. There’s barely room to breathe, the both of them burning alive in their own skin. Aaron’s cock is twitching in Alexander’s grip, his stomach clenching and pressure building all up his spine. He’s so close it aches, and Alexander is so close to making him. Alexander must be close, too; his thrusts are growing shoddy, oddly timed and far more forceful. He’s lost the teasing pace of before, found a far more suitable one for getting himself off. Aaron is right there with him, teetering on edge and almost, almost, _almost_ -

Aaron comes on a particularly violent thrust, a straight shot for his prostate and something positively _wonderful_ from Alexander’s clever hand. He comes hard between their stomach, painting them both with his come. Alexander exhales heavily onto his neck, his thrusts smearing Aaron’s spill between their bodies. Aaron leans upward to kiss him, intent on preserving this moment, this time between them. Alexander kisses back, biting, speeding his pace even more. Aaron can feel his chest heaving, his heart drumming the inside of his ribcage and threatening to burst through. It only takes a moment for Alexander’s hips to stutter, still, and then he comes with an exaggerated moan. Aaron shudders in outright bliss at the feeling, Alexander filling him and marking him as _his_ , the wet warmth all inside him. Alexander thrusts a few more times to finish himself off, slowing until he stops entirely, just lays there as he begins softening inside of Aaron.

“Thank you,” Aaron whispers, and he’s still not sure why they’re whispering but he feels like he needs to say it. He says it once, and a thread of several more are tempted out; _thankyouthankyouthankyou_. Alexander smiles into his skin, kisses him again. “I love you, Aaron,” Alexander- Hamilton- whispers back, and pulls out. Aaron feels his back stiffen against the hard surface of the desk, every hair on his body standing on end. He doesn’t know what to say back, and so he says nothing. He just lies still and feels Hamilton’s release start to leave him, the memory already slipping away.

Hamilton stands, running his fingers through the mess on his stomach. He sucks it away, but makes no move to clean Aaron as well. “Feel free to bathe yourself,” he says instead. He tugs his pants up from his thighs, and Aaron sees him wince at the sensitivity. “And then we can talk.” Aaron nods, stands up and does as he says. He feels sore in the legs. He leaves the majority of his clothes on the floor of Hamilton’s study.

In Hamilton bath, Aaron sits in lukewarm water that scarcely reaches his hips and thinks. His ass is chafed, sore red and raw from the desk. The porcelain of the tub feels nice on it at least. He rubs the inside of his thighs absently, glancing around the room; alongside the tub, there’s a simple bar of soap, likely Hamilton’s. It has a long strand of black hair caught on it. Besides that, there’s a few others, carved into the shapes of roses and other decoratives. Eliza’s, Aaron guesses, by both the look and the flowery, girly scent that is overpoweringly present on them. Hamilton’s wife.

This has to stop, Aaron decides, taking Hamilton’s bar of soap from the edge of the bath and rubbing himself down with it. They can’t keep doing this. For everyone’s sake. And while rinsing away the coarse soap from his skin, cupping water in his hands, Aaron realizes what this means. They can never do this again.

He returns to Hamilton’s study still soaking wet and entirely nude, retrieving his trousers from the floor the moment he enters. Hamilton is sitting down in his chair behind the desk, staring at the fireplace with no real interest. Aaron clears his throat to announce his presence, suddenly feeling very awkward again.

“Oh. Aaron,” Hamilton says, monotone, as if a dripping wet Aaron Burr wearing nothing but breeches in his study is something he sees every day. Aaron nods back politely. “Hamilton.” He suddenly can’t bear to call him by his first name. Hamilton doesn’t offer Aaron a place to sit. Aaron stands stock-still in front of him. Hamilton presses his lips together tightly. “Should we discuss what you came here to tell me?” Aaron falters. He’d nearly forgotten. But he’s still here on a business visit, and Hamilton is listening to him, so. So he’d best start talking.

“About the election,” he answers after a long pause. Hamilton’s eyebrows raise again. Aaron still watches them with the same intent fascination. “About my campaign for presidency,” he adds when Hamilton still doesn’t respond.

“Well,” Hamilton replies some time later, drumming his fingers on his desk, “let’s talk about that, then. What do you need?” Aaron pauses. That’s a loaded question if he’s ever heard one. Still, he simply straightens his back and stands his ground. “I came to get your support, Hamilton. You’re the only way to guarantee the Federalist vote.” Hamilton’s face falls. Aaron feels his chances of success drop alongside it. Hamilton gives a deep sigh. “Burr, you know I don’t involve myself with politics anymore,” he says, very plainly. Aaron nods. “I know. But think of it. You’re still the most influential Federalist there is, even after the Reynolds scandal and all of that fuss-”

“Can we not discuss my shortcomings here? Especially if you’re asking for my assistance.” Hamilton puts his face to his hand, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Aaron shrinks back. “Yes, of course. My apologies, Hamilton.” Hamilton sighs again. “I don’t know, Burr. I really don’t. I’m not certain I can give you my blessings without full confidence in you.” At this, Aaron feels anger stirring within him again, boiling deep in his gut. “How can you not know?” he bites out, shaking his head furiously. “It’s either me, Jefferson, or Adams. Adams is a lazy asshole who doesn’t even do his job, and you _hate_ Jefferson. How can you not _know_?” Hamilton blinks up at him and shrugs. “I just don’t. I’m sorry, Aaron.”

Don’t even _bother_ with calling me Aaron,” he goes on, his face hot with anger. “Do you really think I’m so incompetent that I couldn’t out-perform those two asshats in the office? Really?” Hamilton shakes his head, his own brow furrowing. “You’re putting words in my mouth now. I just don’t believe you could live up to the standard that Washington set for this country’s presidents.”

“Neither could you! No one could!” Hamilton doesn’t answer. Aaron can hear himself being too loud. He sounds like Hamilton. It’s downright repulsive, honestly, and he hates how he’s acting but what else is he supposed to do? What was the point of any of this if Hamilton didn’t believe in him? Aaron shakes his head, scoffs. “And now you’re going to put Adams back in the seat because you doubt me slightly."

“I’d _never_ vote for Adams,” Hamilton responds, eyes narrowing. “Stop telling me what I’d do. Just because I doubt you doesn’t mean I doubt them less."

“How could you doubt me? We’ve known each other so _long_ , Hamilton.”

“That’s exactly why, actually.”

“Fuck you. Thirty minutes ago you said you loved me.” Hamilton freezes in place, and his eyes lock back on Aaron’s. Aaron’s heart is jackhammering in his chest. Finally, Hamilton says, softly, “I do, Aaron. That doesn’t mean I agree with you on everything.”

“You have a wife,” Aaron answers. Immediately, Hamilton counters, “And so do you."

“My wife is _dead_ ,” Aaron corrects, trying not to think about anything that Hamilton’s said. Instead, he reminds himself that they can’t keep doing this sort of thing. “And you’re clearly not going to help me. So.” Aaron turns to leave, doing his best not to think of Hamilton sitting behind him, waiting for him. He tries to be more focused the fact that it’ll be nearly impossible to find his shirt, scattered somewhere on the floor of the front room.

“Aaron, wait. Please.”

Aaron can’t help himself when it comes to Hamilton. He’s never been able to. He stops, and he waits.

Hamilton stands, walks toward him. He stops close to him, crosses his arms. “I see you’ve taken a hard stance on this. And so, I trust you.” Aaron blinks up at him. “And what does that mean?”

“It means you have my blessings as a presidential candidate. Tell anyone you like. Good luck.” Aaron resists the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely. “Thank you,” he says instead. “I’ll need it."

“One last thing before you go,” Hamilton says, tilting his head. Aaron feels his brows furrow. “What would that be?” Hamilton leans forward, catches Aaron’s chin in his palm. He smiles. “You know. Just the usual.” He leans forward for a kiss. Despite all better judgement, Aaron leans in, too.

“I’ll see you soon, Aaron,” Hamilton says when they pull back. He’s whispering again. Aaron is ready to stop whispering. “Yes,” Aaron replies anyway. “We’ll see each other soon.” Hamilton smiles in the crooked way that he does when he means more than one thing. “Yeah. We really should see each other more often.” Aaron doesn’t reply to that. He turns and leaves the Hamilton residence for the last time, taking his time in gathering his clothes on the way out.

-

Aaron tells no one about Hamilton’s blessing him as a candidate, backing him as an influential Federalist. He worries if he did, he’d let something about their afternoon slip and then he’d be ruined, too. The more he can do to avoid a _Burr Pamphlet_ , the better. Besides, he doesn’t think it would do him much good as it is. He closes that away, lets Hamilton fade into the back of his mind. Aaron tries not to think about it too much.

Hamilton endorses Jefferson two weeks later. Aaron is not surprised when he does.

**Author's Note:**

> aaand here it is; canon-era smut. did i finish my burrens fic? no. did i write this all in one night? yes. thank you for asking. you're so kind
> 
> as always, im on tumblr @schuyburr. hit me up with a comment or a kudos and i will shower you with love, confetti, and other nice things


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